


...to feel like everything is lost

by emavee



Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Gen, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt Dick Grayson, Knife Wounds, Whipping, but nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27222064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: “Bruce Wayne,” Dick says again. Bruce nearly sobs at how empty his voice is, hoarse and cracking. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”Whumptober Day 27: power outageWhumptober Day 29: reluctant bedrest
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948276
Comments: 18
Kudos: 223





	1. Chapter 1

This is the last place Bruce wants to be right now. Who the hell goes to a fucking gala when their child is still missing?

It had apparently been a valid excuse for the first six months, but now everyone has decided that six months is more than enough time for Bruce to get over it, that his son is only worth six months of his time and energy. It’s been  _ six whole months already, _ so Bruce is just supposed to forget about Dick and get back to his normal life.

So Bruce is here and he hates it, loathes it with every fiber of his being. Even on a normal day, a day more than six months ago, these parties would make his head ache and his skin itch, but at least he could glance around and spot Dick charming little old ladies or raiding the dessert table or showing off his handstand skills to some of the younger kids. He still glances around now for someone who isn’t there, as if Dick is going to pop out from under one of the banquet tablecloths and make everything right in the world again.

He misses Dick. Even beyond the constant worry, the lingering terror, that his kid is lost somewhere hurting or even possibly dead, he just misses him, so bad it aches. He didn’t know it was possible to miss another person so much.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be out looking, should never have stopped, even for a moment. He shouldn’t have come home that night until he'd gotten Dick back.

He’s a horrible guardian. A horrible dad. That’s all he can think about as he sips ginger ale from a champagne flute, attempting to mingle even as his stomach churns at the thought. 

He’s about to go attempt migraine-inducing small talk with Mr. and Mrs. Who-Even-Cares when suddenly, the world goes dark. For a moment, there is stillness and silence, and then the hall descends into chaos. This is Gotham; these people know what it looks like when an event gets crashed by any one of their numerous rogues. All it takes is the shattering glass of one of the windows to send people into hysterics.

Bruce lurches into action, although he tries not to let it show. In all the chaos, though, it’s not hard to slip away. (Ironically, _horribly,_ it's even easier when he doesn't have a kid to watch out for. Ha.) He just needs to see who they’re dealing with.  God, he’s so tired.

Bruce has trained himself to operate efficiently in low-light. This fact is what saves him when something darts at him out of the corner of his eye, a glint of metal flashing over his head as he ducks below the knife hurled straight at him.

“Bruce Wayne.” He straightens. In front of him stands a creature dressed in black and gold, a creepy mask over its face, pale white and resembling something like an owl. It’s voice is raspy and low, shudderingly-eerie in the dark hall. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

_ The Court of Owls. _ Bruce tries to file this information away, but he barely has time to comprehend what the thing said before it’s launching itself at him, knives and golden claws gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the window.

Unable to avoid a fight with the assassin-creature, Bruce swings the moment the thing darts into his range, fist colliding with the side of the thing’s head. The force of the blow knocks its weird mask off, sending it clattering to the floor. 

Bruce hits  _ hard, _ even when not wearing the Batman gauntlets, but the thing just turns back to him, deadly slow. Before his eyes, the dislocated jaw creaks and pops and pulls itself back into place. It’s horrifying and unnatural but Bruce doesn’t focus on the creepy healing for long because now the thing’s face is exposed.

No, not thing,  _ person. _ It’s a person. And not just any person…

“Dick?” Bruce whispers.

What have they done. What have they done to his son? 

Dick’s skin is far too pale, looking thin and nearly transparent in the moonlight, but his veins are dark, nearly black, spiderwebbing up his neck and creeping across his face. The soft, thick hair that Dick had been wanting to experiment with growing out hangs around his face, looking stringy and unwashed. And his eyes… they’re a golden yellow, staring straight at Bruce without an ounce of recognition. Without much of anything really. He looks  _ empty. _ Just a shell of the lively, wonderful person he’s supposed to be.

“What did they do to you, chum?” Bruce murmurs as he steps forward, reaching for his boy.

Dick lets him reach out, stays still and ramrod straight as he lets Bruce’s fingers brush his face and then oh so gently cradle his cheek. The skin is colder than it should be, and no warm puffs of breath escape him. Dick stares up at him, something  _ almost _ curious on his otherwise blank face.

“Dick,” Bruce whispers again. He swipes his thumb across Dick’s face, as if to brush away tears that aren’t there. Dick’s eyelashes flutter and for just a moment, he leans into the touch, and Bruce very nearly sobs right there. 

How many times has he imagined finding Dick? How many nights now has he laid awake, dreaming about what he would do when he finally got his son back? He would hold him close and dry his tears and never let him go again. They would get him healthy food and medicine and whatever care he needed, he would do everything in his power to make sure Dick could feel safe again. He would tell his son how much he loves him, how terrified he was, how much he missed him.

He had known that whatever state they found Dick in, it wasn’t likely to have been very pretty, but nothing had prepared Bruce for this. His son looks like a zombie, looks  _ dead. _ He’s not breathing, barely blinking, cold and impassive. He does not recognize Bruce.

His  _ jaw. _ Bruce had dislocated his kid’s jaw, and then watched it pop itself back into place right before his eyes. He hurt his own child.  _ He hit his kid. _

“Oh, Dickie,” he whispers. “Chum. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

He loses his chance, his reuniting moment with Dick slipping through his fingers like sand as Dick unfreezes, turns away from the palm against his cheek, and  _ lunges. _

Whatever they did to Dick not only stole his memories, it made him faster and seemingly stronger too. Dick was always quicker than Bruce, relying more on his speed and agility in battle while Batman was a heavy hitter, but now he moves at speeds that have to be inhuman. He’s jamming a golden knife into Bruce’s shoulder before Bruce even gets the chance to blink.

Bruce stumbles back, relying on instinct as he ducks out of the way of the second knife, this one headed straight for his throat.

“Bruce Wayne,” Dick says again. Bruce nearly sobs at how empty his voice is, hoarse and cracking. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

“Dick,  _ please. _ ” He dodges another attack, grabbing Dick’s wrist and twisting it to force him to drop the knife. He does, but not before his wrist sickeningly pops under Bruce’s fingers. Bruce jerks back, feels as though he’s been burned, and barely has the sense to kick the knife away. “God, I’m so sorry.”

Dick’s bones and ligaments twist back into place with a snap, but he’s moving again well before the healing finishes. The pain doesn’t even seem to phase him, but Bruce knows he can feel it all the same. For the most part, Dick’s face is utterly blank, but he’s still retained enough of himself that Bruce could see the pain flash quickly in his now-golden eyes.

He’s hurting him, again and again. First he loses him, lets this Court of Owls take him and change him, and now he’s inflicting physical pain on his own son. They’ve sparred before, of course they have, but this is  _ different. _ Dick is fighting to kill, and Bruce is…

Honestly he has no idea. He can’t help Dick if he gets too stabbed, but it hurts just as bad to fight back the way he really needs to. 

Dick is different now, strong and quick and ruthless. He still fights like poetry in motion, but with none of the flourish and fun that Bruce is used to. These are these sharp, efficient moves of a trained assassin.

His son. An assassin.

“Dick,” he says, tries to put the strength of his Batman growl behind it, to maybe reach Robin, but he can’t quite manage it. He feels like he’s choking, or about to throw up. “Try to remember. Fight it. I know you can.”

Dick doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t let up at all. Bruce might as well have not even spoken.

“Fight it!” he cries, desperate. “Damn it, Dick. This isn’t you. Try to remember.”

Dick buries the knife up to the hilt in Bruce’s stomach, and it’s as if the world freezes. Bruce stares at Dick, trying to reach him, or at the very least to commit every ounce of him to memory (They may have changed Dick, but he’s still  _ Dick. _ He’s still Bruce’s son.), and Dick stares back. Beneath his careful porcelain facade, there’s a war of conflicting emotions that Bruce just can’t read.

“Dick,” he whispers, tastes blood.

One moment Dick is there and Bruce is reaching out. In the time it takes for a single, sluggish blink, he’s gone.

Bruce sinks to his knees, then crumbles to sit down on the floor. Hard.

He waits for the paramedics to find him, feeling as blank and numb as Dick had looked.

* * *

“You failed, Gray Son.”

Talon stiffens, flinches, but knows better than to show it. The Court does not tolerate weakness. Nor do they tolerate failure, and Talon has succumbed to both tonight. 

He doesn’t understand what happened. He did everything just right, followed the plan laid out by the Court, but that man, the one Talon had been sent to kill, had behaved so strangely that he had froze. He can still feel the ghost of a hand resting gently against his cheek.

Gentle. No one has ever been gentle with him before. No one has ever laid a hand on him except to bestow pain, to punish him and teach him and mold him into the perfect Talon.

He does not understand what happened, but he knows he failed the Court, so he knows he will be punished. They have to punish his failures or else he won’t learn and he’ll be useless to the Court. He deserves this, for his weakness.

So Talon stays still and silent, awaiting the necessary punishment. He falls to his knees without need of a verbal command, pulling the top of his uniform off without prompting. 

The whip licks fire across his back, and he doesn’t bother to keep track of the number of lashes. There is no point to it; the lashes will stop when they feel he’s been properly reeducated and even Talon doesn’t know when that will be. His skin sews itself back together, over and over, as blow after blow rains down. His whole back is aflame, then his whole body. The world is blurry and far away and he barely recognizes when the whipping stops and clawed hands reach for him, tugging up onto useless legs and dragging him through familiar blank hallways.

It isn’t until he’s on his back, watching as his coffin closes around him, that the panic starts.

No, no, no. The pain is expected, it’s normal. Broken bones and deep gashes are things he’s grown used to, and he lives more of his life in pain than out of it.

But the coffin is agony. It’s worse than any other horror they’ve ever bestowed upon him. The cold floods his veins immediately, piercing like hundreds of needles under his skin and he wishes and wishes and wishes that he could just fall asleep. But he doesn’t. He stays, hurting and terrified and so, so alone. He doesn’t know if he’s screaming or not, but it doesn’t matter. No one would listen to him anyway.

Oddly enough, his cheek still burns, although it’s a different burn than the whip or the sharp sting of claws slicing through thin flesh. It’s warm, even as he’s frozen. 

Talon closes his eyes and tries and tries to dream about the strange man with tears in his eyes and his hand gently cupping Talon’s cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for Whumptober Day 29: reluctant bedrest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally going to be its own work, but i think it's better to just add it on here

“I’m going out,” Bruce says, trying to push himself up and out of the bed. It’s been five days now, since he last saw Dick. Since Dick had looked at him with blank eyes and drove a knife into his gut.

Alfred rounds on him immediately, which, yeah, Bruce expected that, but that doesn’t make that glare any less terrifying. “You most certainly are not! You just got discharged from the hospital this morning. Now is not the time to go gallivanting around in a rodent costume!”

“It was Dick, Alfred,” he argues. “I have to find him.”

“Master Bruce, whatever has been done to him has changed him. Frankly, you are no match for him in your current condition, especially given that it is likely that he is not alone.”

“I can’t just leave him with the Court of Owls!” Whoever they even are. He struggles back to a seated position, only for Alfred to gently push him back down again. His shoulder and abdomen sting, but it’s nothing he hasn’t worked through before.

“And you won’t,” Alfred says, repositioning the stack of pillows behind Bruce. “But you will need to be more prepared. You cannot hope to rescue Master Dick in this state, and you will be absolutely no use to him if you are dead.”

Bruce almost snorts, almost laughs, would if it weren't so fucking horrible. That’s rich. He’s been pretty much absolutely useless to Dick for a good long while now. Even with two-fewer stab wounds he hadn’t been able to save him. What matters, though, is that he  _ tries, _ that he does every single thing in his power to get Dick back before they get the chance to hurt him anymore. 

He knows they’ve been hurting him. He’d seen it in the empty gaze, heard it in the broken voice, sensed it in the way Dick had tilted his head just slightly into the touch against his cheek, drinking up every last ounce of non-painful touch. Bruce had dislocated his jaw and cracked his wrist, and Dick had brushed past both injuries as if they were nothing, as if he were used to the pain. 

The thought makes Bruce sick, and then causes him to loathe himself even more for not being able to get him the hell out of there and back home where he could be safe and no one would ever hurt him again.

He is a child, _Bruce's child,_ and he burns with the desire to rip apart every one of the fuckers that laid a hand on him.

“He was  _ right there, _ ” Bruce whispers. “I should have gotten him back. I should have saved him.”

“You did everything you could.”

Bruce shakes his head, but any more words are lodged firmly and painfully in his throat. He didn’t. There must have been something else he could have done, anything else. And instead his brilliant, Batman-worthy plan had been to freeze and then hurt his own child. He should just retire right now.

Well, not right now. Batman still has to destroy the entire fucking Court of Owls, which he could get started on if  _ Alfred would let him out of this damn bed. _

“Alfred, I need to—”

“What you need to do, Master Bruce, is let yourself rest and heal, so that you can get back out there and  _ bring our boy home. _ ”

There is a tremble in Alfred’s jaw and a deep sorrow etched into the lines around his eyes. It’s not for the first time that Bruce is reminded of just how big a hole losing Dick has left in the world. Alfred loves him like a grandson, and there’s no doubt in Bruce’s mind that he doesn’t also find himself sometimes physically paralyzed by how much he misses him.

“You will get him back, sir.” Fiery, righteous anger flits across his expression for just an instant. “We will get him back.”

Bruce wishes, so badly, that he could truly feel that same conviction that exists in Alfred’s tone. But the truth is, he just can’t quite bring himself to. The way Dick had stared at him with no recognition had hurt worse than either of the stab wounds.

Even if he defeats the Court of Owls, even if he manages to drag Dick home safe and sound, it’s unlikely that he will ever be the same again, and that thought hurts worse than anything. Dick is still alive, at least in some sense of the word, but the feeling in Bruce’s chest sure does feel an awful lot like grief. 

“Rest,” Alfred says, one last time. He picks up the now cold, half-drunk cup of tea from beside Bruce’s bed. “Things will be better in the morning.”

But they won’t. Not until Dick is home, and maybe not even then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, so this is probably the last i'm going to do for whumptober for right now, but i still might go back and fill in some of the prompts i missed, plus the ones i already planned to add follow-up chapters to. it's just going to have to wait a while bc school
> 
> as for this talon!dick series, i do have more planned! there will most likely be two more works, probably rescue and then recovery :)


End file.
